Cosmo

Coach House Books, Toronto

‘Take a look around you,' Kubis said, smiling. ‘And don't be afraid to get a bit close and cozy. Even on a day like today, there's lots of work to do.'

Commander Kubis (Kenneth, she remembered) was director of Surgical Services. It was a title that carried a certain weight.
Maybe I can interview him after the tour
, she thought.
Document his struggles, his motivations, record his climb to seniority.
She had to profile common, everyday sort of people as well as the celebrities, the big names. It was good to think about the book, the future, now, because she would have trouble remembering it all later.
These
stories,
this
journey: it was what would distinguish her manuscript from others, what would elevate her work in the eyes of publishers. She understood that distinguishing herself was vital, that such a chance would not come again.

Crystle Danae Stewart, Miss U.S.A. 2008, stood six feet from Commander Kubis aboard the
USNS
Mercy
. She was on the far right of a small semi-circle of women, flanked on her left by Jennifer Barrientos, Miss Philippines; Samantha Tajik, Miss Canada; Simran Kaur Mundi, Miss India; and Siera Robertson, Miss Guam. Crystle knew only their first names. In her opinion, they were five of the most attractive girls in the competition. They were all brunettes, and tall, their average skin tone being a dark caramel. It was refreshing to be away from America's monopoly of blond hair and blue eyes, the expectation to be vivacious yet neighbourly, if a touch naive.

If they could only just shut up
, Crystle thought,
these girls could be the A-Team
. Aside from Miss Canada, the other three suffered from typical sorts of
ESL
problems: twisted vowels, torturous locution. Jennifer's accent was so horrendous that it was almost funny, and Guam (though wisely quiet) was so obviously taking a day off in terms of cosmetics and wardrobe that Crystle was embarrassed for her. She resented Guam for wearing the ridiculous
Mercy
baseball hat, the worn-in jeans. It was an all-too-easy trick, and one Crystle knew well: trying to look like you aren't trying, trying to look like the girl next door. Like those bubble-gum girls in her stadium-sized classes at the University of Houston, taking Consumer Science and Merchandising, their hair tucked back through designer baseball caps, wearing snug-fitting sweat pants and immaculate lip gloss. Who were they trying to kid?

Stupid girls
, Crystle thought. 
Stupid Guam. This isn't a day off.

She was confident that Commander Kubis appreciated her attention, her smart questions and well-timed nods. And, surely, her flattering and respectful attire: a sleeveless black silk blouse, professionally pressed khaki capris. Tasteful gold-hoop earrings, makeup applied with a light touch, hair straightened and tied back. He must be secretly pulling for her, hoping she'd bring the crown home. She was an American, after all, and this was an American military vessel; she felt a small but noteworthy swelling of pride. When he looked in her eyes, she flashed her teeth.

They had been aboard the
Mercy
, docked in the Nha Trang harbour in southeastern Vietnam, for thirty-five minutes. The five contestants were on a tour of the colossal ship to showcase the altruistic commitments of the Miss Universe competition – a taste of things to come for the winner, who would be obliged to be an ambassador of goodwill and human rights around the world. They had been informed earlier, in a droning summary by a considerably less charismatic shipmate, that the
Mercy
was acting on behalf of Operation Smile, part of Pacific Partnership 2008: a four-month humanitarian deployment involving a host of nations, staffed by both military personnel and civilian
NGO
s.

‘We have a total of one thousand beds,' Kubis said, emphasizing the point with sharp, karate-like chops of his hands. ‘That's our total patient capacity: a thousand beds. Our wards are ranked by severity of need and degree of care. We go by intensive, recovery, intermediate, light and limited. This room here – this is intensive.'

Crystle watched the other girls gaze blankly over the sky-blue sheets spread taut over the reclining surgical beds. There was a surprising amount of clutter for an or – cords and wiring, wheeled workstations, fire extinguishers and arcane naval gadgets that simultaneously fascinated and frightened her. It was strange, too, that in sections the floor was dark and carpeted – what about spilled fluids? It felt as though she wasn't on a ship at all, but shuffling along the glossy floors of some giant metropolitan hospital, complete with swinging double doors, lofty ceilings, passing gurneys, even elevators. Descriptions of ge turbines, maximum speeds, information from the National Steel and Shipbuilding Company, basic dimensional summaries – such tedious detail was straining her concentration, making her wary of possible questions or quizzes. All that specialized naval jargon – the raised forecastle, the transom stem, the bulbous bow, the extended deck house with its forward bridge – made her long for a cool shower, the clean white linens of her four-star Diamond Bay Resort hotel room and the guided-meditation tapes she'd forced herself to listen to, if only to calm her nerves. In any case, soon they'd get to the more intimidating stuff: the burn ward, casualty reception, the morgue (which she hoped they'd pretty much skip).

‘The
Mercy
is basically a mobile surgical hospital,' Kubis continued, his smile widening. ‘If we were engaged in battle, we'd be providing medical and surgical support to our Marines and Air Force units. These days, we lend a hand in humanitarian and disaster relief – we're still busy, even in peacetime.'

It was a hokey, generous smile. Commander Kubis exuded a sort of calm and trustworthy radiance. Obviously a projection of his personality type, she noted. From what she could tell, he was a fine example of her personal philosophy: the alliterative principles of
Persistence, Patience
and
Perseverance
. And simply by repeating these three words, Crystle was able to conjure all the familiar comforts of home: sitting in the backyard of her parents' modest bungalow in Missouri City, listening to the dry winds rattle the high wooden fence and the cicadas sound their motorized whine, a tall glass of iced tea or lemonade sitting nearby on the arm of her deck chair. No thoughts of outfits or makeup or rehearsed responses, simply family time, the heart of ‘Team Crystle': her homespun support network of friends and co-workers who made the early mornings and the dieting and the exercise less isolating, less liable to break her spirit.
Spirit
was a concept they'd discussed often, reclining in the backyard on those humid afternoons, her father with his blue Oxford shirt and slippers, her mother clutching at her chest, both of them hanging on her every word, every setback she listed or every doubt she had of her own worth.
Spirit
was her parents' hard-working ethos, equal parts secular stick-to-it-iveness and no-nonsense Christianity.
Spirit
meant character and charity, something to see her through the long haul of the year, the move to New York City and the posh new apartment, the new life of charity balls and careful public appearances. Crystle was reminded daily that
spirit
meant you were beautiful on the
inside
– that a person can't be pretty on the outside and have rotten guts. And even when everything seemed unreal and the world of photographers and journalists and actors swarmed her, she could feel secure if (and only if) she remained a strong,
spiritual
woman. She had a ‘big responsibility to fulfill,' her father would add, being such a ‘trailblazer,' because she was the first 100 percent African-American to hold the title (Chelsi Smith being biracial and Rachel Smith being
tri
-racial, after all).