Dumplin' (25 page)

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On Monday, as I'm walking out of class, Mitch reaches for my elbow. Mr. Krispin has already run off for the teachers' lounge, and everyone's cleared out. It's just us.

“I wanted to say that I don't think I should be your escort for the pageant.”

I look up at him, but he only lets our eyes meet for a second before looking away. “I'm not doing the pageant anyway.” I hadn't said it out loud until this very moment, but I made my decision on Saturday night, standing in my driveway with Bo.

I can see his thoughts moving across his features. Thoughts of him trying to convince me. Telling me about the bright side. But he says nothing.

“And I'm sorry,” I add much too late. “I didn't mean for you to get hurt.”

“But you like him?”

I nod.

“I'm sorry doesn't make it better,” he says. “I would've been really good to you.”

“More than I deserve.”

I want to tell him how close he'd come, and that had I never met Bo, he'd be it. But I met Bo, and now I know what it feels like for one person's name to wreck you.

He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket and walks out.

I give him a few seconds' head start before I leave for my class on the other side of campus.

I take my time. I'd rather be late than out of breath. No one likes to see a fat girl huffing and puffing. The last bell rings and the halls clear.

And then Ellen slips out of the last classroom on the right.

At first, she doesn't see me. She wipes her eyes. She's crying. It could be about anything. But whatever it is, I don't know about it.

She glances back and sees me trailing a few feet behind her. She stops, not bothering to wipe her face free of the tears streaming down her cheeks. Maybe she and Tim broke up. Maybe she got in a fight with her new friends. Maybe she failed a test. I don't know. This is my moment to step up. To ask her how she's doing, and apologize for everything.

But she turns and rushes into the bathroom. The moment is gone.

I don't stay for any of my other classes. This day has already gone wrong in too many ways for me to risk sticking around. When I get home, there's a text from Millie asking if we should all get together to practice our talents. The pageant. It doesn't even matter anymore. When
I entered, I did it for Lucy. And with Ellen by my side. But Lucy's dead and Ellen is further away than ever.

I text Millie, Hannah, and Amanda:

ME: I can't do the pageant. It's short notice. I know. But I'm backing out. Y'all are going to be amazing. You deserve to be there. I'll be cheering you on from the audience.

After calling into work sick for the night, I turn my phone off and decide to keep it that way for the entire evening.

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I spend Tuesday and Wednesday faking a fever and nursing a bag of mini chocolate chips I found in the pantry from a few holidays ago. We're not the type of household that just has sweets on hand (surprise!), especially with my mom still on Operation Squeeze into Pageant Gown.

When I tell my mom I'm not feeling well, she closes my bedroom door without any questions. “Sorry, sweetheart,” she says. “Can't risk getting sick. You take the day off.”

For Mom, every single moment not spent on an elliptical at the YMCA or at work is a crafting 911. Our house is a war zone of fabric, props, and sequins, but the chaos of it actually gives me some quiet.

I want—no, need—a few days to be a total slob. I haven't showered since Sunday, and it's oddly comforting to know that I look almost as disgusting as I feel. When Ron gave me the week of the pageant off work, I don't think this is what he had in mind.

By Wednesday night the freedom is fading, and I find myself lying facedown on my bed listening to one of Lucy's records, which turns out to basically be the worst of Dolly
Parton. The songs I like to forget she ever did. Like, “Me and Little Andy.” I mean, what the hell with that song, Dolly? It's about a little girl and her dog dying. Who even wants to hear that?

The front doorbell rings, interrupting my inner rant. I smile into my comforter. I couldn't answer it even if I wanted to.

It rings again. My mother must not be home. And again and again.

I push myself off my bed and take my time going down the stairs. Standing on my toes, I look through the peephole.
Sigh
. I bang my head against the door.

“What do you want?” I yell.

“Let me in,” says Hannah. “Come on.” She rings the doorbell over and over again. Nine, maybe ten times.

“Come around back,” I finally yell.

She doesn't even ask why.

I stand with the back door open, and she brushes right past me. Riot sniffs her out for a second before running off.

“I've called you, like, eighty-five times this weekend,” says Hannah. “I don't even like talking on the phone.” She hands me a Tupperware full of stew. “My mom wanted me to bring you some of her sancocho.”

“Your mom?” I open the fridge and wedge the container between a carton of milk and jug of orange juice. “I've never even met your mom.”

“Well, you're like her favorite person ever because of this stupid pageant, so I hope you're pleased with yourself.” She plops down into my mom's seat at the kitchen table.
Hannah's the type of person who can be comfortable in anyone's home, I think. There's none of that extra care most people have when they're in a new place for the first time. She leans forward on the table with both elbows. “You can't quit the pag— Wait, are you listening to Dolly Parton?”

I shrug.

She glances up at me, and takes note of my current state. “There is so much wrong with this picture.”

I pour a cold cup of coffee and pop it in the microwave. “I guess if by wrong, you mean right, then yeah.”

“When's the last time you showered?”

The microwave dings. “Showers are so subjective.” I shrug. “Let's go upstairs.”

“Only if you turn off that horrible music.”

Upstairs, I pick the needle up from the record as Hannah spreads out on my bed. She takes the Magic 8 Ball from my nightstand and shakes it. “Has Will lost her shit totally?” She reads the answer. “You may rely on it.”

I sit down at the foot of the bed and lay across the length of it on my back. Maybe this will be easier if I can stare at the ceiling the whole time.

“Okay, so something happened with Bathroom Boy, I'm guessing?”

“Boys. There were two. And I don't even know why I wanted to do this in the first place.” I stretch my arms out and let them hang off the edge of the bed. “Maybe I thought I deserved all the same things all those other girls do. I don't know? But I'm different from other girls, and
even if I do deserve the same things they do, that doesn't mean I'll get them. Me getting up there and competing against them would only prove that.”

“Nope,” says Hannah. “I call bullshit. You don't deserve to win anything or be in any pageant until you make the effort and do the work. Maybe fat girls or girls with limps or girls with big teeth don't usually win beauty pageants. Maybe that's not the norm. But the only way to change that is to be present. We can't expect the same things these other girls do until we demand it. Because no one's lining up to give us shit, Will.”

“That's easy for you to say. I walk into a room and the first thing anyone notices is how fucking huge I am in comparison. But for you, all you have to do is keep your mouth shut, and no one knows the difference.”

“Whoa,” she says. “Low blow. Yeah, I can keep my mouth shut. Until I have something to say. You try being the half Dominican lesbian with buckteeth in this town, okay?”

I shake my head. “I'm sorry. I'm a mess and—”

“And you're projecting whatever. This is still bullshit. If you're not going to do this for you, do it for Amanda and Millie.” She chews her lip and stares past me into the mirror in front of my bed. “And me too, I guess.”

“You guys'll be fine without me.”

“No, actually, we won't. Millie can't compete unless you do.”

I sit up. “What are you talking about?”

“Her parents found out about the pageant,” she says
with nonchalance. “Millie begged and begged. She told them about how your mom runs the thing, so they said if you were competing, then so could she.” She pauses for effect. “Then you dropped out.”

Guilt settles in my chest. I lick my chapped lips. Slowly, I'm becoming aware of how gross I feel after going the whole weekend without a shower. “Listen, that sucks really bad, but—”

“But what? Please tell me you're not that selfish.”

She's right. This isn't a joke for Millie. This is about idolizing and studying these pageant contestants her whole life, and finally allowing herself to be one. My leg bounces up and down as I think. I don't know that this would earn me any good karma. I might be too much in the negative for that, but I owe this to Millie. If I'm not going to go out there and grab life by the balls like she is, I should at least offer the courtesy of not standing in her way.

Hannah reaches over to my leg, stilling me.

I turn to her. “This is going to be a total disaster,” I tell her.

She smiles with her mouth barely open. “I'm kind of counting on it.”

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Boys get out of school to travel to football games, so I guess it shouldn't be that much of a surprise that every contestant is given the Friday before the pageant off from school. The extra day is spent in interviews and grueling dress rehearsals. We're talking blisters, double-stick tape, and tears all over the place. This isn't some low-budget high-school musical. This is Clover City's Miss Teen Blue Bonnet Pageant.

Last night, Hannah drove me to the community theater where my mom was setting up so that I could have my entire wardrobe approved. Seeing as I couldn't wear my formal, I had to go for a sequined black mother-of-the-bride looking thing I found in one of Mom's donation piles in Lucy's room. It was wrinkled, but new with tags. My mom, Mallory Buckley, and Mrs. Clawson all made me promise to steam it before Saturday. As for a swimsuit, my options were limited to my black one-piece and the red and white polka dot one I bought last summer but hadn't had the balls to wear. I chose the red. Go big or go home. Plus the black swimsuit has little lint balls all over the butt.

My talent costume was another thing. I dug through my room until I found the flapper headband I'd worn on Halloween. I had the black dress from Lucy's funeral, and my mom agreed to lend me her black satin gloves if I returned them before she had to wear them for the formal wear segment.

On Thursday morning, as I'm getting ready, Mom comes in to see what I'm wearing for my interview. “I like that skirt,” she says. “But maybe add the teal blazer I got you for your birthday.” I look in the mirror, considering her suggestion, and nod.

We drive to the Silver Dollar Banquet Hall where the interviews and luncheon will take place today. The air-conditioning buzzes above the twang of the radio. With Thanksgiving next week, it's getting pretty cool, but Mom's got the air blastin' because she's got the “flashes.”

We park and she wriggles into her dusty-rose suit jacket. “Dumplin', I love you. And I'm hoping you'll make me proud.”

My stomach does somersaults. I don't want to embarrass her. I really don't.

“But,” she adds, “I can't have anyone thinking I'm giving you special treatment, so we're all business until Saturday night after the pageant.”

“Right,” I mutter. “All business.”

Okay, so this place really is all business. They've got us contestants lined up outside of the banquet hall. No one is allowed to talk to each other until after the interviews
are completed, which really makes no sense because this doesn't strike me as the type of thing you could cheat on. I mean, they pull questions from one huge list, and no one gets the same combination.

After the interviews is the luncheon, and after that is when contestants are allowed to set up their dressing room spaces. And that's when shit really starts to get real. Tomorrow is dress rehearsals; Saturday morning is reserved for a light run-through before the show, which starts promptly at seven p.m.

All of us look so ridiculous. Like, we're here for a job interview and the one requirement is that you wear one of your mom's polyester suits.

I watch as girls with last names starting with A, B, and C file in and out of their interview. Some come out with broad smiles. A few are shell-shocked. And a handful in tears. It sounds horrible, I know, but a small part of me sees the girls in tears as eliminated competition. I don't even want to win, but I think there's this survival instinct inside all of us that clicks on when we see other people failing. It makes me feel gross and incredibly human.

Since we're in alphabetical order, Ellen and I—Dickson and Dryver—are sitting right next to each other. Every time our shoulders so much as touch, she moves an obnoxious distance away from me, like she's been electrocuted.

“Dickson? Willowdean Dickson?”

I startle a little, and instinctively look to El. Our eyes meet for a second, and I see a slow smile linger on her lips before she catches herself and glances away.

I am going to bomb.

Mallory holds the door open for me. “Remember,” she whispers. “You never get a second chance at a first impression.”

“Well, that's encouraging,” I murmur.

The four judges—who until now were anonymous—sit in a row at the front of the room behind a long buffet table.

They each introduce themselves. But I know exactly who they are.

Tabitha Herrera—owner of not one, but two beauty shops in Clover City: Tabitha's and the cleverly titled Tabitha's #2. Tabitha does everything from highlights to perms. She's the type of hairdresser with mind-control abilities. You can sit down in her chair and swear that you came for bangs, but leave with a bob. And because it's part of her charm, Tabitha lets you think the whole thing was your idea. She's got huge boobs and the hair to match. When people up north think of Texas, it's Tabitha they think of.

Dr. Mendez—I know little about him except that he's the only orthodontist in town. He's from Philadelphia or Boston or one of those places where people are always yelling, and he always looks a little jarred by everything. I mean, I guess if I move to this small-ass town from Philadoston, I'd be a little on edge, too.

Burgundy McCall—I shit you not. That is her real name. No, she is not a porn star or the leading lady of a soap opera. Her parents are Texas A&M graduates (technically, their colors are maroon and white, but I guess “Burgundy”
had a better ring to it), and she's a Miss Teen Blue Bonnet turned kindergarten teacher. She made it all the way to the statewide Miss Teen Blue Bonnet Pageant, and came in as second runner-up. My mom—who only ever competed in the local pageant because she had me—has never outright said she resents Burgundy, but whenever she says her name, it sounds like she's eaten something too hot and is about to spit it out.

Clay Dooley—Clay Dooley Ford. He is probably the richest person in Clover City. His hair is always perfectly coiffed and his jeans are a smidge tighter than a tourniquet. His belt buckles are huge and gold and probably cost more than our mortgage. Clay Dooley is all Texas. He is the stereotype Dr. Mendez's Bostadelphian parents warned him about. He's so rich, in fact, that he has time to judge stuff like this because he doesn't make the money. He has people to do that for him.

I sit down in front of them, and no one looks up except Dr. Mendez. The other three shuffle papers back and forth and murmur something about the previous contestant dodging questions.

Burgundy finally glances up and upon seeing me, one of her perfectly groomed eyebrows pops up. Clay and Tabitha both have the same kind of reactions, but are more successful at masking them. It is then that I realize that I am the first of the . . . I'll call us the unlikely suspects.

I think of all the good advice I've ever gotten in my life. Most all of it is from Lucy. But nothing clicks. Nothing prepares me for this moment. So I channel my mother.
If my mother were standing here in this room right now, what would she say? If she weren't running this whole show, and she was just my mom, what would she tell me to do?

Smile
,
she would say.
And don't you dare sigh.

I smile. So hard my cheeks hurt. And I do my best not to sigh.

“Willowdean Dickson?” asks Tabitha.

I nod. I smile. I. Don't. Stop. Smiling.

“Dickson,” says Burgundy. “You're not Shirley's daughter, are you?”

“Yes,” I say. I hear my mother:
manners.
“Ma'am,” I add. “Yes, ma'am.”

Clay clears his throat. “Okay, let's get this show rollin'. Willowdean,” he says, holding up a crisp dollar bill. “If I were to give you this dollar, what would you do with it?”

This is a trick question. Still smiling. A dollar. What could I do with his dollar? Okay, I could give it to a homeless guy. I could buy a donut. Yes, sir, please, I would love to buy a donut with your dollar.

No, no
. I've got to think bigger. Charity feels too obvious. “I would go to the dollar store and buy a box of pencils. Then on the morning of the SAT, I would roam the halls, selling them to the slackers—I mean, the students who forgot their pencils. For three bucks apiece.”

It's quiet for a moment, and then Clay lets out a hoot of laughter.

Beside him, Burgundy purses her lips. “And what would you do with the money?”

“Buy more pencils,” I say. She begins to scratch something down on her score sheet. “And then, once I had a nice chunk, I'd donate it to charity. Or use it to buy a holiday meal for a family in need.” Creativity? Check. Savvy? Check. Selflessness? Check.

Tabitha smiles to herself, and I think maybe she even winks at me.

Once the judges finish writing down their comments, Tabitha looks up. “We have one other question for you. Define loyalty.”

The adrenaline is sucked from my body like a vacuum. I am not smiling. “Loyalty.” I take my time with each letter, trying to stretch out how long I have before I've got to give an answer. “Loyalty is . . . loyalty is being there for someone. It's selfless. It's about standing by someone's side even when you don't want to.” Ellen. All I see is Ellen. “Because you love them.”

That night when we lay in her bed, talking about the first time she had sex. It was so hard. I felt like there were nails in my stomach, but I stayed there with her. I listened to every detail because that's what you do for your best friend. I can feel her out in that hallway, thinking of me. For as angry as she is with me, I know she's sitting out there wondering how I'm doing in front of these judges.

“Loyalty isn't blind.” Even when I wish it was. “Loyalty is telling someone they're wrong when no one else will.” It embarrasses me to know that I told El she couldn't enter the pageant. Like us competing alongside each other would somehow ruin the point I was trying to make. When,
really, with her, I am only stronger. I am the best possible me.

I think that my whole world has cracked into all these little pieces, and the only way I can go about fixing it is one shard at a time. For me, the first piece is always Ellen.