Princess Problems

{This story contains Internal racism and mentions of external racism}

Isabella adjusted her plume for the millionth time that day. The soft white feathers brushed across the pads of her fingers; a sensation that she once found comfort in but now felt like tiny knives against bare nerves.

“An unmarried Wichita girl always wears her plume on the right side.” She repeated the excerpt from her speech in her head. No. “An unmarried Wichita woman.” She had to remind herself that she was a woman now. This wasn’t Jr. Miss anymore. This was the Miss contest. Somehow nothing more than a title and an additional speech had pressed itself down into her shoulders like boulders holding her down.

She adjusted the mirror in front of her again. The girl looking back at her didn’t feel like her today. She didn’t look like her either. Her dark hair was pulled into braids so tight that they pulled the skin at her temples, giving her almond eyes a narrower appearance. Her lips were painted a dark red. Her mother said a darker red made her look darker as well. Dark face paint would have helped as well. But she was far too old for red face paint. The white may have washed her out, but tradition demanded it.

The lines that stretched out from the corners of Layla Morgan’s eyes; on the other hand, were a bright red; a benefit of being Comanche. But Layla Morgan didn’t need the red to make her look darker like Isabella did. Layla Morgan was perfect. Isabella wanted to puke. But that would risk staining the shiny satin skirt of her regalia.

She looked back in the mirror and imagined a girl that looked like her. Eating her powwow pickle in her chair while her mother reminded her not to drip it on that same satin. The dull light of the moon would bounce off the bead work that tied back her braids and the rhythmic sound of the drum would beat in tune to her own heart beating. She would dance in the arena, her body moving before she thought to tell it to. Her friends dancing right alongside her as their feet hit the ground in perfect unison. She allowed herself a moment to get lost in the memory. Then, she straightened her back. That girl danced in the middle of grand entry. That girl walked knowing she had everything to prove and no way of doing it. But Isabella could prove something tonight. She needed this crown. She needed this crown so much more than Layla Morgan did.

She looked over to her opponent. Layla Morgan was straightening her medallion. The dark blue of her bead work was beautiful against her warm dark skin. She was gorgeous. Isabella could almost see her in the crown. It would look perfect. People would talk endlessly about how good of a Miss Indian Oklahoma she was. How she brought pride to their people.

What would they say about Isabella? She expected nothing kind. “White girl” was common enough already. It would surely make the rounds on Facebook. “Half-breed” wouldn’t be far behind. Would they say she stole the role from Layla Morgan? It would be a valid critique. Isabella wasn’t on the same level as her. She was so far below her that Isabella couldn’t even see Layla Morgan from where she stood.

Isabella walked to the full-length mirror and adjusted her skirt. Her mother reminded her again and again before the competition to make sure her skirt was straight. But now she could see that the applique was skewed slightly. She wanted to pull her braids out and go home. She had practiced this. She had spent weeks putting this skirt on again and again. But Wichita dresses weren’t made to be a solo task. She wanted to cry. But that would ruin her make up.

“Hi girls!” Isabella’s head snapped to the new girl entering the room. She recognized her immediately. She had spent hours watching and re watching her performance from last year’s pageant, trying desperately to find what set her apart from the runner up.

Kateri Ramirez walked into the room like the princess she was and smiled as both girl’s eyes landed directly on the crown. How could they ignore it. After all the hours they had dedicated to it already.

“How are you feeling?” She asked. Isabella knew this was a part of the competition. It had to be.

“A little scared, but even being here is such an honor!” She spoke fast, trying to get it out before Layla Morgan had a chance to answer.

“Yeah, it’s almost surreal.” Layla Morgan laughed softly. She was quiet and elegant in all things.

“Well, I just wanted to tell you that I talked to the judges and they said your interviews really impressed them. You guys worked really hard on this, I want you to be proud of yourselves.” She looked from Isabella to Layla Morgan. But her eyes lingered on Layla Morgan and Isabella felt her heart drop. She mentally gave her opponent a point. She must have won the interview portion. But there were still four categories left. Isabella could still recover.

Kateri Ramirez stayed for a few minutes after that, she went over the scoring again. As if they hadn’t spent the previous night memorizing it. She showed them the crown, demonstrated how it was supposed to fit on their head. It didn’t have silver clips like Isabella’s last crown. And it wasn’t beaded like the Comanche crown that Layla Morgan had normally worn in her reign. It would be uncharted waters for whoever wore it.

After Kateri Ramirez left, Isabella and Layla Morgan returned to readying themselves for the stage presentation. Isabella looked back at the mirror as she straightened her skirt. The skirt was a dark orange color, matching her bead work. But the lace shirt was a dark maroon, and her tank top underneath was black. Her uncle said it would help with her complexion. She needed the help today. Her half-breed skin couldn’t lose her this crown.

She was suddenly hyper aware of everything touching her skin. The beautiful floral lace she had picked out in the yellow light of the fabric store was scratching her arms and neck. The light satin of her skirt was dragged down by the thick cotton of the applique. The hair ties that held up her buckskin leggings were much too tight. She wanted to run her hands down her face, but that would ruin the delicate white lines that stretched out from the corner of her eyes to her temples. “Focused eyes,” Her grandpa had said. That was what the lines meant.

Layla Morgan wore crow’s feet lines in that bright red. Joy, the biggest competition of her life and Layla Morgan had chosen to wear joy. Why hadn’t Isabella thought of that? Maybe the joy would make Layla Morgan more confident. Confidence wins things like this.

The director called Isabella’s name and she froze.

“Come on, Sister, just do your best.” She smiled sweetly. Everyone here was so kind. Layla Morgan would fit in perfectly.

Isabella smiled back at her, flipping a switch in her brain to put her firmly into ‘princess mode’. She could do this. She had to do this.

The competition was a blur. Isabella knew she wouldn’t be able to relay it all to her grandma tonight. But now she stood hand in hand with Layla Morgan as Kateri Ramirez held the paper that would ruin her life.

Miss eloquent… Isabella Adams! Her own name sounded foreign to her. But one category wouldn’t win her the competition.

Miss talented… Layla Morgan!

Miss congeniality… Tie!

Miss…

Miss…

Miss…

Isabella didn’t care about any of this. They knew what she cared about. Kateri Ramirez paused and she felt Layla Morgan squeeze her hand. This was it. This would make or break them.

“Miss Indian Oklahoma 2025-2026…” They both held their breath. Isabella could feel hot tears welling up behind her eyes. But she couldn’t cry before she had lost. She couldn’t cry after either. She would be perfectly composed in all things.

“Isabella Adams!”

Suddenly Layla Morgan was hugging her so tightly that Isabella thought her rib might pop out of place. A white and red shawl was being wrapped around her shoulders and a trophy shoved into her hands. She stared down at it, the glass trophy read “Miss Indian Oklahoma” but she couldn’t read it. Not with the tears filling her eyes. All she could focus on was how pale the stage lights made her hands look. All she could focus on was the clear lack of pride filling her chest.

She smiled wide as a camera flashed white light in her face. This was it. She had proven them all wrong. She had shown that she deserved her spot in the arena. But why didn’t it feel that way? Where was the victory? She looked back to Layla as she was led to stand next to the new Jr Miss Indian Oklahoma. There were no tears in Layla’s eyes. And part of Isabella wished there was. She wished Layla was evil enough to hate her, so that she could hate her right back. She wished Layla would be more than a friendly opponent, she wished she would be a rival. But she wasn’t. She was just another girl with a dream to chase.

She looked back out to the crowd, her parents and aunts and uncles and cousins were rushing to the stage and Isabella wished they would just stay in their seats. The crown was placed on the top of her head, and she had never felt less like a princess. Hot tears were running down her face, but it was okay. No one had to know why she was crying.

This wouldn’t change a thing. It wouldn’t make her skin any darker, or her hair any thicker. She would be the same girl she always was. She didn’t know why she had expected that to change.