Dumplin' (23 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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I've only had a serious hangover once. Ellen and I went to a lock-in at Tim's mom's church, and Tim, being the good boyfriend he is, brought us wine coolers stolen from his dad. Ellen and I poured them into Sonic cups and kept refilling them until her mom picked us up the next morning. We slid into the backseat of the car and fell asleep slumped up against each other. Ellen and I slept all day, and when we woke up, I felt like I'd been asleep for years. Everything was too bright, and all I wanted was to chomp on greasy food before going back to bed.

On Monday morning, I am hung over from a weekend spent with Bo. My entire body is drowsy, and I have to extract myself from bed in stages. One limb at a time.

We probably spent eight hours studying for our World History test, but I can barely even remember the review questions, let alone the answers. And my Friday afternoon at the Hideaway feels like a memory tucked deep into the past.

When Mitch walks into second period, I am studying my notes, trying to recall some of what I studied. It's like
my brain has decided to purge information to make space for the events of the last two days.

When his huge frame invades the narrow doorway, the memory of him hits me like whiplash. Mitch and I exist in this weird gray area, but I'm thinking it's grayer for me than it is for him.

“Hey,” he says. “I texted you a few times this weekend.”

“Ah, yeah. I'm sorry. I was drowning in World History notes. It was one of those things like I'd see your text and then say I'd message you when I was done reading, and then I'd forget.” I'm doing that crazy babbling thing.

His features are loose, but his eyes are tense and focused. “The pageant's in, like, two weeks. I was thinking—” He wipes a few beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Maybe I could be your escort. I went to the pageant a few years ago, and I know girls have to get guys to escort them. I could, like, rent a tux. Is that dumb? You were probably supposed to ask me, but you wrote on your face for Sadie Hawkins, and I don't know. What do you think?”

“I . . . I—yes. That would be good. Great.” I want to take the words right back. This is more than a friendly gesture. Yet, selfishly, I do need an escort. And Bo didn't technically offer. Besides, if I can't handle the idea of walking down a hallway with him, how will I cope with him escorting me in front of the entire town?

“Okay, cool. Should I get something to match your dress? Like prom or whatever?”

“I think black is good. And you can wear a suit. You
don't have to rent a tux.”

He shakes his head. “My mom's idea. She's all on board for this.”

Oh God. His mom.
“Great.”

“She really loves that you're doing this. She says it's brave.”

I smile. But I don't want it to be brave. I want it to be normal.

After school, Millie tracks me down in the parking lot, which isn't hard since I'm just standing around, hoping to catch Ellen on her own.

Today Millie is a ball of mint green, including her backpack. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail with a matching scrunchie, because Millie might be the only person I know who still wears scrunchies.

“Hey,” she says. “So, Friday was pretty great.”

“Yeah, it was.”

She rocks back and forth on her feet, her hands twisting together. “I'm—my family is kind of religious. Actually, really religious. And my parents. Well, they wouldn't be super happy if they knew where I was. And who we were with.”

I feel my shoulders slump. “Okay?”

“I say that because . . . I always thought people like Lee and Dale were wrong. Like, they were living in sin.”

I hate phrases like that. “Jesus vocab,” El would call them. Things you learn in church that are hammered into you until they're so normal that you expect everyone else
who doesn't go to church to know what you mean.

Millie shakes her head. “My words are coming out all wrong. What I'm trying to say is that I liked Lee and Dale and I had fun that night at the Hideaway. I keep thinking about it and they're good people. I wish everyone could see that.” She smiles. “I just wanted to let you know.”

Something I can only describe as pride swells against my chest. I grip Millie's shoulder. “I'm glad.”

“Pageant piggies!” someone yells from the other side of the parking lot, breaking the moment between us. “Oink! Oink!”

“Eat shit!” I bark back. I turn to Millie. “I'm sorry.”

She tucks a stray hair behind her ear and takes a step back. “It's whatever. It's fine.”

I knew this was bound to happen eventually. With the pageant two weeks away, the town's attention is all on us. And in our case, that might not be a good thing.

Millie pulls on the straps of her backpack. “I was thinking of having you, Amanda, and Hannah over for a slumber party. Amanda will go, but I don't think Hannah will if you don't. So . . . will you?”

As a rule, I don't do slumber parties. Nothing about sleeping in more than a T-shirt and underwear on Millie's floor while her parents check in on us every few hours appeals to me. But I don't have it in me to say no to her right now. “Sure,” I say. “Yeah, I'll be there.”

The next night, after I pick my mom up from work, she
says she's made some adjustments to my dress and would I mind trying it on.

She leaves me, again, in her room to change by myself. The top half of the dress is a perfect fit. I can't even imagine how long it must have taken her to get the darts right. But the bottom half is something else altogether. She said she would take it out as far as she could, but it's still snug. I feel fine in it. I'm not embarrassed or anything.

But I see it in her frown.

“The top is good,” I say. “Like, perfect.”

She presses her palm against my back. “Try standing up a little straighter.”

I do.

She makes a tsk noise.

The sound of her disappointment is like needles under my fingernails. “Mom, it's fine, okay? I love it.”

“Dumplin',” she says. “It's huggin' on your hips like a straitjacket.” She runs her fingers along the seams. “I can't take it any further without risking it splitting.”

“Mom, it's good. I only have to wear it for, like, ten minutes.”

Her lips twitch.

“What?” I turn around to face her without our reflections standing between us. “Just say it, Mom. Whatever you're thinking, say it.”

She waves me off and starts to pack up her sewing box on her dresser. “I thought . . . I just thought you might make an effort to slim down a little for the pageant.” She
turns back to me. “I mean, are you even taking this seriously? Because you know this isn't a joke. I let you register because I expected you to take this seriously.”

Her words send me stumbling. “So the dress doesn't fit because you expected me to lose weight?” I wave my hands up and down the length of my form. “Mom, this is me. This is my body.”

She shakes her head. “I knew you'd take that the wrong way. You always see the worst in everything I say. I can't do this anymore. I'm not the bad guy here.”

“Then who is?”

She's silent and the words she doesn't say hang there between us like hulking icicles on the verge of breaking. “It's too snug,” she finally says. “I'm not going to approve it for the pageant. It's not about you being my daughter. I would do the same with anyone else. It's inappropriate.”

“Mom, I feel good.” My voice starts out even and calm. “This dress makes me feel like someone I didn't know I could be. I've never owned anything like it. But if when you see this—when you see me—you think it's a pity, that it's a shame I didn't lose a few, then screw you, Mom. Try harder.”

There's this still moment as I'm waiting for her to leave. Then I realize it's me standing here in her room. I pick up my dress so as not to trip on the hem, and then I leave her there in that lonely little room that she'll live in for the rest of her life with her sash and her crown and her sea-foam dress.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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After work on Friday night, Bo gives me a ride like he has for the last two weeks, but this time he's not taking me home.

We roll to a stop outside Millie's house. Ron let us both off a little early so I could get here before midnight.

I pull my bag into my lap. Millie thought we should all get together. With only two weeks to go, she said we needed a bonding activity.

The pageant has become such an afterthought for me. I think I originally signed up because I was so sure I had something to prove. I don't know if it was to myself or my mom or everyone, but with each passing day, I feel more and more like I have nothing left to say.

“So y'all are getting together to practice stuff for the pageant?”

I shake my head. “Not really. More game planning, I think. We gotta stick together.”

His brow is heavy with confusion. “So you four all entered the pageant together?”

I nod.

“I'm totally on board with the idea that anyone who wants to should enter this thing, but why does it have to be such a big deal?”

Grinning, I turn to him. “It's kind of like how you keep going to mass even though you don't go to Holy Cross. It's something the team does together, right? But just 'cause you're not on the team doesn't mean you shouldn't go. And just 'cause we don't look like beauty queens doesn't mean we shouldn't enter.”

“I guess it would be really cheesy of me to say I think you're ten times hotter and smarter than any beauty queen.”

My cheeks burn. “Yeah. Super cheesy.”

“I didn't know people still did slumber parties,” he says.

“Well, I guess they do. El and I always spent the night at each other's houses, but we never called it a party.” In the last few days, I'd told Bo all about El and me and how we weren't really talking. He seemed to think we'd get past it, but I just can't seem to find that same foresight.

I open the door.

He reaches for my hand. “Willowdean? Have you thought any more about what we talked about? You know I wasn't kidding, right?”

It's so impossible for me not to say yes. To tell him that I want to be his girlfriend. “I need a little more time.”

He nods. “Okay. Time.”

Amanda stands at the door with her jaw dropped so low it melts into her chest. Millie cranes her neck from behind Amanda.

“Oh. My. God,” says Amanda. “That was Peachbutt.”

I shush her and wave them both inside. The first thing that strikes me about Millie's house is how everything—from the fake flowers to the paint to the throw pillows—matches. Millie is a lavender cotton ball in her matching sweat suit, socks, and headband. It's like she went online and searched “slumber party outfits” and came up with this gem from a Baby-sitters Club book cover or something.

Amanda is in her soccer shorts and a T-shirt, but she's barefoot. It's the first time I've ever seen her without her platform shoes on, and I don't want to be that jerk who stares, so I keep my eyes on her face instead, which still feels totally obvious.

“Okay, but real talk,” she says. “He dropped you off. Here. You were in his car. Tell us everything.”

Millie pulls us down the hallway and past the TV room where her parents are watching some PBS series with British people talking in hushed voices about scandalous things like who's going to serve lord and lady their chilled pea soup.

“Wait till you hear about my pageant-dress fiasco. I hope y'all are having better luck,” I say.

Millie shakes her head and yanks on my hand, pulling me to her bedroom door, which I know is hers because a wooden heart with her name painted in cursive tells me so.

Amanda covers her mouth, stifling her own laughter.

“What?” I ask.

Millie's eyes meet mine, and there's a desperation in her I've never seen before. She opens the bedroom door, and
on a lavender beanbag in all black is Hannah. She doesn't even look up.

Millie takes my bag and sets it on the foot of her bed. “Okay, sit down.”

I do. Right there on the floor.

Millie sits in this crazy wicker throne chair in the corner of her room. It looks like something out of a retirement home, but oddly enough, it suits her. I wish I could take a picture of her in this huge chair with her matching outfit, ringlet curls, and sloped nose. “You can't talk about the pageant in front of my parents.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because they don't know she's in it,” says Hannah.

With a huge grin plastered across her face, Amanda slides down onto the floor in front of Millie.

“But what about the parental consent form?” It's more a rhetorical question because I know the answer. I can't imagine Millie being capable of such deception.

She licks her lips. “I forged my mother's signature.”

Hannah sits scrolling through her phone, with her lips sealed but smiling.

Millie's round face crumples a little. Her cheeks tinge an even deeper pink than normal. “I asked them. Back when I first found out you were entering the pageant.”

I nod along with her, encouraging her to tell me more.

“And my mom took a few days to think about it. But they said no. They said they couldn't have that on their conscience. That I'd get made fun of, and that it didn't seem like a very Christlike way to spend my time.”

Hannah scoffs.

I roll my eyes at her. Which doesn't matter because she can't spare a glance away from her phone. “But what are you going to do? The pageant is next weekend. I mean, you're going to be in the paper. And then
everyone
will know.”

Sure, we'd been heckled a few times, but once that paper goes to print, there's no turning back. People like Patrick Thomas would have good material on me for the rest of our lives.

“I—I don't know.” She chews the skin around her thumbnail, and her eyes search my face, looking for some kind of answer or something. Anything that might tell her it will be okay.

I see it now. I see now what the stakes are for her and how she wants nothing more than to break out of the delicate little box her parents have built for her. “It'll be okay,” I say. “It's going to be fine.”

“I think it's badass,” says Amanda. “I woulda never thought you had something like that in you.”

“Oh, I think she's got room in there for plenty,” murmurs Hannah.

That's it. I am so over her attitude. “What is it with you?” I spit. “Why are you even here? Can't you just hate on something in your own house?”

“Will,” says Millie.

“It's true,” I say. “Millie invited you over here to her home and all you've done since I walked in is stick your face in your phone and brood.”

Hannah finally looks up. Her face is all amusement. “Oh, like you even give a shit about these two. You're just here to feel better about yourself. This is some kind of sad circle jerk.”

I feel my nostrils flare.

“It's true,” she adds. “That's the only reason you're sticking with this little freak show. You were an asshole to your best friend and now all you have is us.”

“Stop,” says Millie, cutting the cord of tension between us. “Let's talk interview questions. I tracked down some from a few years ago for us to practice with.”

“Don't talk to me like you know the whole story,” I tell Hannah. “Because you don't.” I turn to Millie. “Is there somewhere I can change?”

Millie points me to the bathroom across the hallway. Every little mauve detail matches, including the house-shaped shelf that holds spare toilet paper. Like in Millie's room, there are cheesy inspirational quotes in frames. My personal favorite:
A smile is a curve that sets everything straight.

Still on her wicker throne, Millie says, “Okay, so like our packets say, there will be an interview session the Thursday before the pageant. The judges will grade us on that, and then combine it with our live interview during the pageant. I think that's one or two questions.”

“And we don't know the questions beforehand?” asks Amanda.

“No,” I say, letting sleeping memories of my childhood spent backstage resurface. “No, and this is where they like
to stump you.”

“Interview is the component with the highest point value, so if we—”

Millie's interrupted by a light knock. The door creaks open. Her mom, with hair tall enough to hold a few family secrets, stands with eyes brimming like she might cry or something. “We're heading to bed.”

“Okay.” Millie bites in on her lips so that they disappear.

“I'll have breakfast ready for you girls tomorrow morning. We're so happy to see Millie have some girlfriends over.”

“We're so happy to be here,” says Hannah, her voice flat.

Millie's smile is tight. “Good night, Mom.”

“Night-night, sugar.”

After she shuts the door, we discuss the point value breakdown and how ridiculous it is that swimsuit accounts for more than talent. Once Millie is sure her parents are asleep, we head to the TV room and watch a few videos of former pageants that I stole from my mom's stash.

The more contestants that grace the screen, the more obvious it is how much we do not fit. There's the odd black sheep here and there, but never anything like the four of us. It makes me feel small, like a blip on the history of this little pageant. What about next year? Or the year after that? Soon, we'd be forgotten and what would be the point then?

Millie feverishly takes notes throughout the night,
while Amanda asks questions like, “What if we get wedgies during the swimwear part?” or “Do you think there's ever been any major wardrobe disasters, like, a nip slip? Will we get bathroom breaks?”

Hannah looks up from her phone to say, “This is kind of depressing. I mean, this is the actual highlight of these girls' lives. The people on these tapes are moms or even grandmas now and this is probably the best thing they've ever done.”

“That's not very fair.” Millie's voice is quiet. “Just because maybe these women have stayed here in Clover City or have become stay-at-home moms or cashiers doesn't mean you can deem their entire lives outside of the pageant a waste.”

Hannah says nothing, but her lips nearly tremble.

“Listen, Hannah,” she adds. “I know people have been cruel to you, but—”

“I'm going to bed.” She tucks her pillow beneath her arm and heads back to Millie's room.

After she's gone, I wait for Millie to say something about how horrible Hannah is, but she keeps whatever thoughts she might have to herself.

The three of us stay there for a while longer. Millie tells us how she used the piggy bank she's had since first grade to order a dress from Cindy's.

“I had sleeves added, but at the last minute, decided to have them made with organza instead of satin so it's almost see-through. I'm kind of nervous about how it'll turn out.”

“I'm sure you'll look amazing,” I tell her.

She smiles and nods. It's dark, so I can't know for sure, but her eyes look watery. I want to wake her parents up and tell them that their daughter is competing in a beauty pageant, and that she's going to win. At least she would if it was up to me.